


in darkness she beckons

by creampuffs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Graphic Description, Psychological Drama, Supernatural Elements, basically a darker edition of soulmate murder wives, with light Hannibal flavors :')
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24865603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creampuffs/pseuds/creampuffs
Summary: Eve is a government agent who is plagued by the sensory experiences and emotions of nearby or connected murders before they occur. As she struggles to control the frequency and intensity of her visions to catch a mysterious female serial killer she's named V, she finds herself unable to keep the mental and psychological spaces separate between them. After a horrible case-related incident that results in the death of her work partner, Eve has been relocated to a small suburban town for her own safety and recovery. However, as a string of murders crop up in and around her new town, she finds herself drawn in even deeper to her growing connection to V and the supernatural nature of their relationship.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 31
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

Eve’s phone says that the temperature outside in the cramped parking lot is eighty-two degrees fahrenheit. The drop of sweat that rolls from her forehead and straight into her eye tells her it’s really more like a ninety-eight.

“Fuck,” she mutters before using the edge of her sleeve to wipe her face.

A family of four pass noisily by, shoving a shopping cart in her general direction. She glares at their retreating figures, trying to see if she can cobble together an excuse elaborate enough for running them over.

Nothing comes to mind though, and as she drags the cart back to the others behind the store, she finds herself reaching for a cigarette. It’s not even halfway to her lips before she hears a voice to her right, close and uncomfortably loud.

_“Eve! What did I tell you about smoking? It’s going to rot your face and make you look even older.”_

The Korean is sharp, punctuated by a quick exhale as the store manager shakes her head. Eve’s jaw twitches and she wonders if a heat stroke might feel the same as a rage aneurysm. She pockets the cigarette, smiling tightly.

“Mm, yes. We wouldn’t want that, would we?” She turns to face the manager fully, asking her next question in stilted Korean. _“Did you need anything, Mrs. Cho?”_

_“The ladies downstairs need help prepping banchan for tomorrow’s inventory. You are good with a knife, aren’t you?”_

The question throws her off and Eve’s mouth works strange shapes, reaching wildly at excuses for why she might be familiar with the thick handle of a dagger too sharp or a blade too wet and her memory is spinning with smears of red and parted flesh until she realizes…that it’s a rhetorical question and that Mrs. Cho is still talking.

_“—got sick from a peanut allergy but all you need to do is chop and pack, alright? Even a monkey could do it.”_

The actual Korean translation is more like a rock head, or a no-brain, and Eve chews at the inside of her cheek as she lets her brain linger on this mental image instead of a festering panic. She finally nods and heads back into the store, and under the cool blast of central air conditioning, she feels instantly less crazy. It’s a Saturday, and the crowded store shows it. She cuts throw cramped aisles and weaves through customers, passing full shelves of instant ramen, curry, rice, and dried noodles. At the cooler of pickled radishes and anchovies, she takes a hard left and descends into the basement.

She hears the _banchan_ ladies before she sees them, their noisy Korean audible from the dimly lit stairwell.

_“And can you believe she’s still not married? Twenty-seven and without even a boyfriend. How does she expect to have children? Who is going to take care of her when she’s old and ragged?”_

_“Oh, I know, it’s ridiculous. My grandson is the same way, totally blind to real life. All he does is play games all day. What does he think he’ll find in that game box, a college diploma? A job? A sense of worth?”_

Eve reaches for a nearby apron and slips it on, fastening a knot over the words _ARIRANG_ emblazoned on the front. She then moves awkwardly to stand by the table where all the ladies are working, and it only takes a minute before one of the older ones (a grandma, by all accounts) makes room for her and slides over a cutting board with a large knife. As she snaps on her plastic gloves and opens a large jar of uncut cabbage kimchi, the grandma gestures to the pile of empty containers and offers Eve an already prepped one for reference. She taps at it and flashes Eve a gummy smile.

“OK?”

Eve wonders if she should tell them that she can speak Korean but before she can attempt a lame reply of _‘I understand’_ or _‘Thank you’_ , the grandma has already turned around to rejoin the quick banter at the table. They all seem capable of chopping vegetables and packing them without taking their eyes off each other and it’s as impressive as it is unsettling.

Eve sighs to herself and gets to work.

As she watches the spicy gochujang stain the ends of her gloves orange-red, the chitter chatter of the ladies fades out. With every careful slice of her blade, she slips a little further away from the dark basement of _ARIRANG_ and a little closer to the rain slicked streets of Paris. Rather than the dull drone of the fluorescent lights above her, she can hear the echo of wet footsteps and the quick pulse of thin fearful breath. The sensory imprints of the then and the now swirl together, and Eve finds herself drowning in red pepper flakes, claps of thunder, blood, grains of wood, laughter, sharp vinegar and steel. The textures and patterns are rough on her skin, pressing against the back of her eyelids, and the sounds are thick in the amphitheater of her brain. Her mouth floods with sharp iron and she can feel cotton under her fingers, a rough gingham that’s soaked in scarlet.

It isn’t until she feels a hand on her shoulder that she jerks awake, yanked from a half slumber of dream and memory, arm in mid-air with a knife still in her grip.

“Good job, all done.”

Eve blinks. Before her are neatly stacked and completed packs of kimchi. She looks up at the wall and notices that it’s almost closing time. The grandma squints at Eve before making a noise, probably more for herself, and wipes her now gloveless hands on the front of her apron while shuffling away. The table is empty, and Eve looks back up at the clock to realize she’s somehow worked through the last three hours of her shift.

* * *

After cleaning up, she spends fifteen minutes in the store parking lot sitting in her car. She is staring at her phone, eyes skimming over the contents of an email she’s read at least twenty times now. The message itself is brief, with only two sentences and a question.

‘THIS IS THE LAST OF IT.  
COLD TRAIL SINCE YOU LEFT.  
ARE YOU OK?’

It’s from Kenny. Or at least, Eve is near certain of it. The block of scrambled numbers and letters in the address field are clearly meant to hide his tracks, and while a small suspicious part of her contemplates the possibility of it not being Kenny, she’s fairly certain now that her current life doesn’t warrant anything nearly as interesting as a cryptic email from a total stranger.

Plus, the attached file and its unique extension is only accessible through a software application that he created for the strict purpose of sharing private information. She picks at a fingernail, wishing she could open it now. What could be waiting for her in that digital file? Pixelated CCTV images of fast moving shadows? More meaningless numbers from various research labs and autopsies? Another mutilated body propped up like some freak circus show with all its blood drained? The air in the car is suddenly stifling, and Eve twists the air conditioning up as high as it can go. The sedan sputters sadly and a hot gust of air blasts her cheek.

She picks absently at a scab on her wrist and types back a quick thanks, hesitating on the question of his email before choosing to ignore it all together. ‘ARE YOU OK?’ is a tricky thing to answer. Something she’d rather save energy for answering in person with her government assigned shrink, who she is now running late for.

Eve starts the car and pulls out of the lot, already dreading the hour long session.

* * *

“How have you been sleeping?”

Eve shifts in her seat and makes a face at the sound of creaking leather beneath her. There are many things wrong with that question, beginning with the fact that Dr. Grey is assuming that any degree of meaningful sleep is being had at all. Eve can’t really remember the last time she’s slept for more than two hours, and the recent stretch of days have been fueled mainly by brief moments of rest when her body simply cannot stand being conscious anymore.

“It’s been fine.”

She watches Dr. Grey watching her and holds her gaze for a minute before glancing up at the clock on the wall. How have only ten minutes passed since she arrived? She looks back at her, unable to quell the irritation she feels from the quiet way she’s being studied. She looks down at her hands to hide any signs of her frustration, as the last thing she wants to talk about is her anger, or god forbid, her feelings.

From her periphery, she can see Dr. Grey brush a lock of blond hair behind her ear. She is wearing a blue cardigan today, and they bring out her eyes in a way that is hard to ignore. Eve catches a speck of red on her thumb and rubs at it, smudging away a stain of chili paste. She wonders how much of her clothes might have secret smatterings too. Wonders if the smell of kimchi is laced tightly in her hair.

“Are the dreams and visions still recurring?”

Dr. Grey crosses her legs as she flips through the notebook in her lap. “Are you still having them during the day?”

“No,” she lies easily, “not really.”

“And Bill?”

Eve freezes, feeling wet cotton against her chest and hearing the unforgiving sheets of rain against cobblestone.

“Eve?”

“Hm? What about him?”

She answers quickly, belatedly realizing she’s picked off the scab on her wrist. The blood plumes. She reaches over to pull out a tissue from a nearby box and dabs at it.

“Are you still reliving what happened with him?”

“Just a normal amount.”

She crumples up the tissue, pressing it down against her skin. She ventures another glance at the clock and craves a glass of Merlot.

“It wasn’t your fault. What happened to you that night was out of your control.”

Eve exhales through her nose and checks her wrist to see that the bleeding has stopped.

“Okay then. That’s good to know.”

She tries not to think of Keiko and the little daughter Bill loved so dearly. She tries not to think about the loose wrinkles around his mouth when he laughed or the dark pinprick of his eye when he gasped his last breath. She tries not to think about control and how slippery it is, how she felt she had it in her hands, so tightly in her grasp, and then how quickly she realized she had been holding onto nothing but air after all. She tries not to think about the cloying smell of sandalwood and copper, so unavoidably powerful and present at the kill scenes she studied obsessively for months. Yet Eve knows intimately that trying not to think might as well be the same as devotedly thinking, and not thinking at all might as well be the same as dying. She has never in all her years been capable of shutting down the busy machine of her brain, not even for a moment.

Hers was a constant locomotion, even if the only foreseeable point in the distance was clearly defined peril.

The rest of the session follows the script they’ve both come to know well. Eve evades any meaningful attempt to connect and by the end of it, Dr. Grey is as resigned as she usually is to the steady stream of non-answers and ambivalent throwaways. They agree on a time and date for the next appointment and Eve is given more scripts for medicine that she has no intention of taking. Afterwards, Eve drives straight to the liquor store.

As excited as she is to open Kenny’s email, she is almost equally as excited to parse through it with a bottle of wine in hand. Or perhaps soju, mixed with watermelon that she bought last week. While the gossip of the _banchan_ ladies could be grating at times, they did every once in a while drop some interesting ideas for food and drink.

She nods at the old man behind the counter and he nods back before returning his attention to whatever sports coverage is playing on the radio.

Eve makes a beeline for the Merlot but pauses when she notices that her favorite brand, a cheap $8.99 bottle with a black cat on the front, is out of stock. She’s about to turn around to ask if there might be more in the back but decides against it when she sees how engrossed he is in the program. Small joys need not be interrupted for casual alcoholism, at least not today.

Instead, she moves an aisle over and eyeballs the hard liquor. Where did they keep their soju? She squats down to skim over the dainty looking bottles of sake and collides right into someone when she shoots back up.

“Oh—god, I’m sorry—“

Eve steadies herself while apologizing and looks up. A dark blond woman in a trim pinstripe blazer is standing in front of her, almost too close for comfort. Eve fumbles backwards to make more room, and the woman inexplicably steps forward as if to maintain their close distance. They both startle at the sudden motion, and Eve looks up to see the surprise in the other woman’s bright eyes. They look at each other and a beat passes before she corrects herself and steps back again, giving Eve enough room to see her more clearly. Her hair is drawn up, slicked back and braided. Her lips are painted red, and they split into a loose smile, erasing all previous notes of confusion. Eve is immediately aware of what she might like look herself: frizzy haired in a thrift store T-shirt with cheap shorts probably sprinkled with food stains.

“That’s alright. Are you okay?”

Her voice is soft but Eve feels the hair on her neck rise. Her heart is beating unnaturally fast.

“I’m…fine. Are you?”

“Bit bruised but I think I’ll live.”

Eve doesn’t react to the light jab and instead, continues to stare. There is something deeply unsettling and familiar about the person in front of her, and she is distracted by the feeling of both wanting to run and to also never break gaze. Somehow and irrationally, it doesn't feel safe to move. The woman’s smile falters slightly at the awkward silence.

“…are you sure you’re alright?”

“What? Oh. Yes.”

Eve jerks to the side and grabs a random bottle beside her without looking at it, eyes still fixed on the woman before her.

“That one’s not very good. Too sweet, and it’s heavy on the peach. You should try this instead.”

The woman leans close again and Eve grows rigid as an arm reaches over her head. The scent of burnt wood hits her nose and she screws her eyes shut as the sour taste of champagne creeps into her mouth. She’s heating up and her entire arm is suddenly covered in goosebumps. She blinks quickly, desperately willing the sensations away and composes herself just in time for the woman to pull back to offer her a different bottle of sake. As her vision clears, she tries not to balk at the numbers on the tag.

“Thanks but uh,” she goes for a quick grimace, “that’s definitely…out of my price range.” She clears her throat and places back the hastily grabbed bottle she pulled from the shelf moments ago. “And I’m actually looking for soju.”

“Oh?”

“Yep.”

The silence creeps back in as they study each other. The woman’s eyes are a strange shade of green, speckled brown around the edges. She peers back at Eve, looking impossibly young and putting forth no effort in hiding her interest. The moment stretches and Eve tries not to blink.

Suddenly, the old man at the counter shouts, whooping gleefully as the sports announcer declares the details of a last-minute goal.

Eve watches the woman put the sake bottle back, eyes never leaving her form.

“It’s good with watermelon,” she blurts out suddenly.

“What?”

The woman blinks at her, and Eve notes how it’s the first blink she’s noticed her make since they met.

“Soju,” she goes on to finish. “Or so I’ve been told. I don’t know, I haven’t tried it yet.”

The woman hums in thought and glances up. She raises an eyebrow before pulling down another bottle, this time safely away from head. She offers it to her, displaying a price tag blessedly lacking in zeros.

“Then you’ll have to let me know how you like it.”

Eve hesitates before reaching for it, almost dropping it entirely when the woman’s fingers ghost over her knuckles.

She jerks backwards as if scalded and practically runs away with the soju in her arms, shoving a twenty on the counter along with a muffled apology as she heads out the door. She can hear the old man trying to give her back her change but her legs are moving well on their own.

She can feel the woman's eyes follow her out, tracing patterns on her back even as she turns the corner to drive home.

* * *

It’s tasty, but not quite what she wanted.

Eve absently swirls more chunks of ice and fruit into her glass of soju as she waits for her laptop to unpack and process the files. She misses the heavy weight of wine on her tongue.

She takes another sip and lets herself crush a smaller piece of ice between her teeth. It crumbles in her mouth, splintering into tiny shards. She plays with a particularly pointy piece as she recalls the events of the day in her mind.

Her dreams and visions have been more vivid as of late. They’ve been getting harder and harder to untangle, so knotted in past, present and future, made further complicated by the blurry borders of memories and prescience. She knows it’s a cause for concern, but secretly, she is glad to know they haven’t left her. For the first few weeks of her time in this new town, they had been absent, strangely quiet. As if they, like her, had accepted that they’d been put to rest somewhere to expire quietly. It should have been a good sign, an indication that she was perhaps capable of living a normal life, something less leaden with murder and violence. Something a little less brutal and sharp, maybe not so shaped by the supernatural or strange.

She spits out a watermelon seed and clicks through the first few files that have loaded.

Familiar images pop up of low-resolution stills and videos from a street corner camera. She remembers this case. The victim was a sixty-two year old male pedophile, found strung up by his entrails on a splintered telephone pole. His body, like all the others that Eve suspects were killed by the same person, was drained completely of blood. It was a feat that stupefied crime scene analysts and forensics teams alike with its near impossibility, especially given the state of the body. There was only ever one wound on him, and it was the slice that was necessary to pull out the organs. No matter how big the slice was, it should have been impossible to drain him of that much blood. It was…inconceivable, really. And yet, she and her team continued to find victim after victim in various areas of the globe, all killed in different ways but connected by the same eerie signature: a blood drained body. A husk, really, by the time of discovery.

Needless to say, her agency was good at keeping these stranger details out of the hands of the public. Not everyone can understand how seeing something impossible doesn’t mean it’s not real.

She zooms into the image and scoffs, scrolling over the big red clown nose on the victims face. Their killer had a sense of humor and perhaps even a random idea of justice, with some victims having been vile humans and others, less so. There was just enough randomness to the nature of the kills that made tracing and connecting them even more difficult. Eve takes another sip of her drink and sends the images to her printer, standing up briefly to consider her wall of photographs and notes.

There’s a spider web of information on eight different cases, assorted in age, sex, and location. She had somehow convinced Kenny to send her the archive of data they had accumulated, despite her technically having been removed from the team. Notes and hand scribbled lines criss-cross among the various pictures and texts, linking together key thoughts and questions that Eve already knows all lead to a frustratingly similar dead end.

She steps closer, glaring at the crude image of a murdered victim who was discovered with two knitting needles in each of her eyeballs. Their killer had been thoughtful enough to dress the woman in a half-finished child-sized sweater before letting the cats in the house make work of her body. She too, was found drained of blood, though there was very little left of her to analyze for any information beyond that.

She holds her drink closer to her chest, letting the cool glass touch her collarbone as she continues to stare at her notes. At the center of it all is a blurry image of a figure, or perhaps a shadow of a figure, the low resolution makes it hard to know for certain. It is the only physical, corporeal hint they have on the killer’s identity and the sole evidence Eve has in assuming their killer might be a woman. It was taken by victim number five, timestamped and revealed to be shot mere moments before his death. This was a hasty job, definitely the sloppiest scene she’s traced back to their killer. The photo doesn’t reveal much, only the bent over shadow or figure of a woman-like shape with a strange halo of light where the face should be. The crew at the photo lab called it a light leak in the camera but Eve wasn’t and still isn’t so sure about it.

Underneath the photo is a small letter drawn in sharpie from the day they christened their serial killer with a name.

V.

 _For vampire,_ she remembers Bill snorting to her one day while waggling his eyebrows. It wasn’t funny then and she let him know it with a dry look. Nowadays though, she’d give up anything to hear him make another crappy joke.

She sighs and drinks deeply, the taste growing on her.

Eve hovers by the printer as it finishes its final passes and promptly sticks up the last of the new images. As she stares at the serpentine shape of victim number eight’s entrails, her mind wanders back to the events from the liquor store.

It was unusual for her visions to happen so sharply in the close presence of other people, especially when she was in any sort of direct interaction with them. She’s definitely experienced them with people in the room, but it was rare for them to occur while in the middle of a conversation, no matter how weird or awkward it was.

Who was that woman? Most ordinary people passed by her unnoticed, but something about her (beyond her clearly expensive taste in clothing) was striking and familiar, enough to stop Eve in her tracks. Not to mention the relentless assault on her senses then, so detached from any kind of narrative (past or present) that she could trace or follow. It didn’t seem likely that they were premonitions of a future murder or crime, especially since those often came to her in more coherent bursts, fragmented and short but almost filmic in their clarity. Now in the privacy of her modest studio apartment, she finds it weirder still how the woman responded to her in turn. Both of them behaved strangely, didn’t they? What the hell was up with that weird step forward the other woman took when she backed up?

Eve bites into a soft piece of watermelon and snorts loudly to herself.

Or maybe she’s just horny and sleep deprived, reading into stupid one-off interactions with the kind of razor sharp analysis and scrutiny that got her booted from her job.

She shakes her head and heads into the kitchen, making dinner of a discounted container of tuna kimbap from the store as she opens up Netflix.

Sleep, as usual, doesn’t come until early morning. When she does drift towards it, she is greeted by a phantom touch on the back of her knuckles and the lull of a soft laugh. Her vision is tinted, burnt brown around the edges, and when she turns to face whoever is there, she sees nothing but a long stretch of grass, neon green and matted with the wet flesh of fallen fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> full disclosure: I have no idea where this is going. this is mainly inspired by some darker elements that I miss between the murder wives and a recent dive back into Hannibal (I never finished the last season, shhHH). this may end up being a weird cocktail of murder-mystery-supernatural-shenanigans with a side dish of Asian American experiences that nobody asked for. OR this is another elaborate ruse to write more about my favorite foods. and queer murderous UST! anyways, lets find out!!!!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! comments + thoughts are always welcome as I blindly drive forward this story to some sort of ~mysterious~ future.

Eve wakes to hot, humid air and sweat on her brow. 

She groans before swinging her legs over the bed, glaring at the all-too-quiet air conditioner in the corner of her room. The silence of the house is deafening and she rubs her face tiredly as she realizes that the power’s gone out. It’s dark and the clock on her bedside reveals that it’s almost three in the morning. She shuffles out in to the hallway, stopping by the kitchen for a glass of water. 

As she watches the water pour out of the sink faucet, she feels the ground beneath her move. It’s subtle how the color of the walls begin to bleed together, but she’s had enough premonitions now to understand what’s about to happen.

She grips the edge of the counter and screws her eyes shut, the sound of running water tapering out as a resounding bass line slowly takes its place. In the darkness she begins to make out shapes of light, bright and pulsing rhythmically. There is music, though it’s hard to decipher what it is beyond a series of garbled, fast paced beats. Wherever she is, it’s hot and cramped, and she can feel the heat of nearby bodies crowding her. Eve tries to focus, tries to will herself to see, hear, and _know_ more about who and where she is. 

The image clarifies, rack-focusing in front of her like an optometrist sliding forth a new piece of glass.

Neon lights reveal a sea of bodies. She looks down and sees a woman in her arms, dancing blissfully against her. A hot spike of excitement thrums through her, and she watches herself place her hands onto the woman’s hips, long graceful fingers smoothing over the curve of her waist. She feels her mouth split, a predatory smile stretching over her face as she nuzzles at the slick stretch of skin on her neck. She tastes bitter and Eve feels the way she moans when she bites down. She can feel herself threading her fingers through the woman’s thick curly hair, can see herself pulling her deeper into the back of the dance floor and into a more private part of the room. She feels hungry, unspeakably starved. 

When she presses their lips together, it is with the intent to devour. Eve feels her moan against her lips, and a coil of heat gathers in her stomach when those same long fingers slip under the woman’s skirt. The woman places a hand on her chest, brushing past the valley of her breasts and even in the overwhelming haze of this vision, Eve grasps tightly onto this clue. 

She watches the woman’s eyes as she snakes a hand between her thighs, relishing the way she practically melts against the wall when she slips into her with a practiced ease. They’re a pretty shade of brown, hazel with pupils blown out right to the edges. There is an almost detached way her gaze trails down from the eyes to the nose to the neck. Eve cant tell if it’s the lights around them but suddenly, she is able to see the blood under her skin so clearly. They twist like roots, veins and arteries that litter every surface of her body, congregating in select areas like thickets. Her fingers move faster, curling inside of the woman, as if beckoning her forward. She gasps loudly, eyes fluttering shut, and suddenly Eve’s fingers withdraw. She feels the sticky wetness of her digits be replaced by warm, almost burning heat as she trails a hand up towards the column of her neck. 

She squeezes. 

When the woman thrashes beneath her grip, Eve feels herself growing wet. Saliva collects in her mouth and a bubble of laughter escapes her lips. Eve is struck by how gentle the sound is. The walls start to close in again and as the breath of the woman grows weaker, Eve’s vision swirls back into the scene of her kitchen as if emerging from a deep and viscous pool. The sound of rushing water swims forth as shallow breaths struggle to keep up with her own need for air.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she whispers to no one.

Eve breathes deeply the moment she’s able to and slides down to collapse onto cool tile. She forces herself to replay the sequence of events as much as she can, already sensing the way it’s all trying to disappear. She buries her face into her hands to focus, ignoring the dampness in between her legs. Long minutes pass until she knows she’s mentally catalogued everything she can, and when she’s confident she can’t gather anything else, she gets up to search for her phone. Her notes confirm that it’s been four weeks since her last premonition, and everything since then had been an on and off blend of her own memories, past crimes she had been investigating, or a confusing blend of the two. The only exception to this was her recent run-in with the woman at the liquor store, but given that the sensory input wasn’t of the violent, murderous kind, she wasn’t quite sure how to categorize it. 

She squints before putting in yesterdays date and a few notes. The words blink back at her: ‘liquor store - tall blond woman in suit (burnt wood, champagne, weirdly familiar)’ and she stares at them for a moment longer before opening up another file to jot down everything she can remember from what just happened.

She then pours herself a glass of water, draining it in one go. As she fills it up again half-way, she strokes the front of her neck idly, fingers still tingling. 

After flipping the breakers back on, Eve opens up her laptop. It’s almost four A.M and while she knows from experience that it’ll take time for the murder to be found and reported, that doesn’t stop her from spending the next few hours refreshing all local news sites. There’s still nothing of interest by the time the sun comes up, and it’s only when she’s nibbling at a piece of dry toast that she thinks to reach out to Kenny to see if he might know anything.

She opens their short email exchange and writes him a quick message, intentionally cryptic in her wording but hopefully enough for him to know what she’s asking about. She’s surprised to get a reply immediately, only to deflate upon the realization that it’s an automated message indicating that his address is void. He’s officially off the map.

She sighs and picks at the crumbs on her lap. With the last hour she has before work, she showers and tries to shake off any residual feelings and sensations. There would need to be more information to even begin trying to identify the victim and murderer in this case, but somewhere in her gut, she cant help but feel like she already knows who’s responsible. She traces the letter V against her side, lost in thought, and as she closes her eyes against the steady stream of water, she tries to keep her mind blank when she reaches down to touch herself. She’s doing fine until she’s not, and suddenly the phantom weight of the woman’s body against her own creeps back along with the dizzying rush of adrenaline and the sound of breathy moans. 

When she comes with clenched teeth and an arm against the wall, she drowns in the scent of sandalwood.

* * *

  
_“Late again, Eve? If you keep this up…”_

Eve shoves her bag into the staff locker and turns around with the most sincere smile she can muster with three grand hours of sleep under her belt.

“I’m so sorry. You see, I received a call last night about my…grandmother.” 

The managers eyebrows shoot up, forming a perfect arrow of concern before she switches to English to match Eve. 

“Oh my goodness. What happened?” 

“She…” Eve’s eyes wander, darting up just in time to catch the city bus pass by with a large advertisement for vaccines. “…got shingles.” 

“Shingles?” 

The manager frowns as she echos back the word, clearly unfamiliar with it. Eve watches her consider it for a minute before pressing on for more questions.

“Is it serious?”

“Oh, very.” She watches the horror wash over her face and knows she needs to be a little more descriptive to be convincing. “It’s…lethal. I mean deadly. It’s very deadly. Dangerous for old people.” The manager nods solemnly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Yeah with their weakened immune systems they just…” Eve makes a slicing motion over her neck and clicks her tongue, “…you know?” 

“She died?!” 

“Oh, what? No! No, no. Not yet—“ she backpedals quickly, catching the judgement and shock in the managers body language “—I mean hopefully not ever but she’s just in…uh, critical condition. It was close. Super scary. Yes, we love her very much.” 

“Eve, do you need the day off?” 

It’s only when she catches the tired, already exhausted look of one of her coworkers as they pass that Eve realizes she still has some sort of conscious left. The Sunday morning crowd of early church goers and Korean moms was always chaotic. She sighs and puts on her store apron.

“No, I’ll be fine. A day of work might actually help.” 

Looks like she’d have to wait until her shift was over to continue obsessively refreshing the news. The daily schedule across the room reveals that it’s a day of stocking shelves with only two hours at the register. Not too bad, all things considered. She much preferred the anonymity of unpacking and organizing inventory, and the less she had to wade through meaningless interactions with customers, the better. 

As the day goes on, Eve tries to check her phone in between arranging boxes of shrimp crackers and bottles of pork cutlet sauce. There’s still no news or coverage related to her vision, and it’s starting to make her antsy.

When she steps outside for lunch, thoughts still circling around the fuzzy memory of last night, she’s so distracted that she almost misses the vibration in her pocket of an incoming call. She pulls her phone out, pausing at the unfamiliar number.

“…hello?” 

“Well hello to you too, babe.” 

It takes a few seconds to put the voice to a face, and she stops in the middle of the sidewalk to make sure. 

“Elena?” 

“Are you in the _states_ right now? Jesus, Eve, what the hell do they have you doing in the middle of the country?” 

Eve laughs, a sharp bark. That’s right, Elena probably doesn’t know that she’s been benched. 

“It’s a long story,” she says as she resumes walking down the street, “and I think the less you know, the better.” 

“Alright then,” she responds breezily. “Listen, I’ve got some news here from Interpol that’s bound to make your day. Better or worse, I dunno yet, but something tells me it might be weirdly boner-inducing for you.” 

“Why do you always make me sound so gross?” 

“I just work with the evidence.” 

“Harhar,” Eve mutters as she pushes the door open to a deli. She stares at the sliced meat by the counter, skimming over cold cuts and sausages as she waits for Elena to continue.

“I think your vampire’s back in the game.” 

Eve stills before moving to the side of the line, motioning to the man behind her to go first. She lowers her voice, clutching the phone closer to her ear.

“What have you found?”

“Nothing useful beyond the usual, you know, husk body thing she’s got going on. Victim was a female this time, looks like she was…” Eve hears the tapping of keys before she continues, “…a white woman in her late thirties. Doesn’t seem to be any sort of record on her either.” 

“Okay, send me everything you’ve got. Photos, videos, witness reports, anything and everything.”

Elena giggles obnoxiously and Eve paces impatiently by a shelf of tortilla wraps. 

“Oh, Eve. It’s cute when you act like you’re my boss. And you are straight up crazy if you think I’m about to go sniffing any deeper through U.S investigations without clearance. The last thing I need right now is petty, territorial drama with a bunch of racist knobs. Besides, can’t you ask Carolyn Martens to pull some strings? Aren’t you like officially in on this investigation anyways?” 

“…right.” Eve rubs at the temple of her head and flounders. 

“Bizarre though, it looks like this happened weirdly close to you.” 

“It was some sort of club, wasn’t it?” 

“How did you know?” 

“Just a lucky guess.”

“…you’re still having those visions, aren’t you?” 

Eve chews at her bottom lip and tries to ignore the concern in Elena’s voice.

“Okay, this will be the last thing I ask from you, promise, but can you just give me the name and address of this place?” 

She hears a drawn out sigh from the other line.

“…alright. But this is it, seriously. You owe me so many gin and tonics at this point. Don’t think I’m not keeping tabs.”

Eve laughs again and this time it comes easier. 

“Of course. I’ll keep the drinks flowing when I’m back in London, pinky promise.”

“Uh-huh. The name of the place is…Garden of Earthly Delights. Ugh, how bougie. Anyways, I’ll send over the address in an encrypted text. You know the drill, yeah?” 

“Thanks again, Elena. Seriously.” 

They both hang up, and Eve waits for the text to come through. When it does, she writes the address down quickly and deletes all trace of both the text and the call. While she didn’t feel great about her lie of omission to Elena, she knows it’s her only way to pick up on this trail. She grabs a to-go sandwich from the front and pays, punching the address into her phone as she takes a huge bite of ham and cheese.

According to the GPS, the club was an hour away by car in a downtown area in the town over. She turns the corner, walking back to the storefront of _ARIRANG_ , already making plans to head over as soon as her shift finished. 

* * *

The lot of the club is empty when she arrives. 

She can tell that the police have already been here, and that attempts have been made to keep the investigation private and shielded from public attention. They did this often when the details of a case were murky, shadowed by unexplained elements that required a more…delicate hand. 

Eve pushes past the heavy entrance door and sweeps past the room, walking straight towards the back of a man leaning against a hot pink table. She steps into his line of sight, trying on a professional smile. 

“Hi there. Are you the manager? I’m here with some follow up questions about last night.” 

He sighs, running a hand over his face. Eve takes a better look at him, taking in the mesh tank-top and the tired way he rolls his head back. 

“Again? My answers ain’t gonna be any different from last night. Can’t you guys give it a rest?” 

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re just trying to understand what happened here.” 

He scratches at his beard and Eve watches him consider her. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen, shifting into a new point of attack.

“Why don’t you just help me run though the facts again? Let’s take it from the beginning. Your name?”

He pulls out a nearby chair and slumps into it, finally relenting. 

“Edward Bosch. Though people call me Eddy.” 

Eve nods and remains standing, jotting his name down while waiting for him to continue. 

“We found the girl towards the back of the club as we were closing up last night. It was a packed house so it took a while. Guess folks just thought she had a little too much to drink if they noticed her at all, it happens sometimes, you know?” He scratches at his ear, clearly uncomfortable at having to recall the story.

“No one on staff knew her, or recognized her as regular or nothing. But Julia, who was on call that night, remembers the lady she was with. Called her handsome and said she had a pretty memorable order.” 

“What was it?”

“Some kinda rice wine with crushed watermelon.” 

Eve freezes.

“Actually kinda refreshing taste-wise, it could be something to try for the menu. Anyways, that was all anyone on staff had to add onto what happened. Like I said, we were jam-packed that night.”

She releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding and unthinkingly writes some words down, mind racing. 

“…I see. Thanks, Eddy. Do you have any cameras setup, any footage from yesterday?” 

He jerks his head towards a small, dinky camera in the corner of the room. 

“Just the one. Don’t you already have a copy?” 

“We’re splitting into two teams for efficiency’s sake, so we’ll be needing another.” She closes the pad with finality and waits expectantly, hoping to god that her lie is believable. 

“Okay,” he says simply before heading into the backroom. She slumps her shoulders the moment he’s out of the room and reaches for her hairband. As she gathers her hair up into a bun, she wonders briefly about just how much trouble she’s in for when she’s inevitably found to be snooping. 

Well, she thinks to herself as she tightens the band around her mane of hair, she’ll simply have to deal with that when it comes. 

“Here you go. This is all we got, seriously. Hey, I have to go pick up my kid from my wife’s house. Is there anything else you need?” 

Eve takes the thumb drive, shaking her head as she drops it into her bag.

“No, that’s all. Thanks again. We’ll uh,” she blinks quickly, “be in touch, probably. Or maybe not. Actually, it’ll be better for you to wait to hear from us. Don’t want to get the two teams confused, after all.” 

He looks at her strangely but Eve’s already out the door and sliding into her car, eager to get home to review the footage. 

* * *

The drive back home goes by fast, but it takes about twenty frustrating minutes of circling the block before she’s able to find a parking spot in her neighborhood. 

She’s peeved by how far it is from her apartment but hell, she supposes that’s the trade off for cheap rent. The thumb drive bounces around in her bag and as she locks the car and begins the walk home, she tries to imagine what she’ll find. There was no way it was mere coincidence that the woman who was with the victim that night ordered watermelon soju, though the implications that arise from the connection only serve to unnerve her.

She walks faster, anxious to confirm her suspicions. The street-lamps above her flicker uncertainly, and Eve only then notices that the street is entirely empty. A breeze passes by, weirdly cool for a summer evening. She pulls her bag closer and is struck by the feeling of eyes on her. She stills and looks over her shoulder, hand reaching for a small gun in the bags back zipper. 

There is no one.

She waits, staring fixedly at the stretch of pavement behind her. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

Her skin prickles, the feeling of being watched only growing until it’s swiftly snuffed out, like a candle in the wind. Long minutes pass until she turns around again, pace quicker than before. 

* * *

Once home, Eve prepares a cup of tea. 

She hovers over her laptop as it off-loads the footage from the club. The microwave beeps, announcing that her instant shepherds pie is ready to eat. Eve ignores it, staring at the screen instead as she watches the progress bar move steadily. 

She brings the laptop close to her chest once it completes, and immediately plays back the footage.

The image is frustratingly hard to read, colored in with blocky green night-vision. There is a lack of any meaningful detail and Eve scrubs through the footage, trying to see if she can spot a familiar body, if her eyes will land on what she imagines will be a woman in a pinstripe suit.

It’s at around the 3 AM mark that she finds her. 

Even in the grainy data of the video footage, she can recognize the woman from the liquor store. The suit is the same, as is the confident gait and almost intimidating height. She’s got her hair braided differently, tighter and closer to her head. Eve sets her mug down, hands shaky. 

She watches the video as she dances with who Eve knows to be the victim, and feels the memory of it on her own skin. She curses when the woman pulls her off the dance floor, moving to where the camera cant follow. Eve drags the video back to take as many stills and screenshots as she can. She already knows that the image will print like shit but it’s all she’s got at this point. 

As the printer groans to life, Eve picks at her microwave dinner and feels the weird sensation of being watched again. She moves toward the window and peers out into the street, only to be met with a passing car and empty sidewalks. She waits, but what is she expecting to find? A woman under a lamp post with hands in pinstripe pockets, smile distant but etched firmly into the placid lake of her face? Two eyes peering back, cat-like, void but alert? Her heart beats like a drum, but for what, she doesn’t yet know. 

The loud beep of her printer snaps her back to reality and she reaches over abruptly to close her blinds.

The printed images are as crappy as she knew they’d be, and when she tacks the last one up on the wall, her phone rings. She grimaces, this time recognizing the number. 

“Carolyn.”

“Eve.” 

A beat passes.  
  
“You really don’t seem to understand what it means to lay low.” 

“…I can explain.”

“Don’t bother.”

Eve sits on her ratty sofa and waits, dimly feeling like a child to be scolded. When Carolyn speaks again, her voice is quiet and curious. 

“Did you see it this time too? Before it happened?” 

She debates whether or not she should lie. The decision comes quick.

“I did.” 

“And you didn’t tell us?” 

“I wanted to make sure.” 

“Hm.” 

Eve picks at the armrest, tugging at some loose threads. 

“You’re still seeing Dr. Grey?” 

“I mean, yeah. It didn’t sound like there was much wiggle room on skipping those appointments.” 

“There isn’t. You should know that keeping your job depends on it.” 

“Mm. Carolyn?” 

“Yes?” 

She yanks at a particularly long piece of thread, pulling it out from the mess of her sofa to examine it more closely. 

“I think I’ve met her.”

Eve hears the faraway sound of dishes on the other end and wonders what the turning cogs look like in Carolyn’s head. The shift between them is as subtle as it is almost mechanical, and getting her job back somehow doesn’t feel half as rewarding as she thought it might. 

“…interesting. I’ll have Kenny send you what we have on the victim. The autopsy report is due tomorrow. We’ll send credentials through express mail for you to coordinate with local law enforcement. And Eve?” 

She stands up fully, staring back at the mass of murder on her wall as she feels herself being roped back into the maw of the beast. 

“You’ll have to be very careful this time. We can’t protect you.” 

A dry laugh escapes her. 

“Who says I’m looking for protection?” 

The phone call ends and Eve can barely taste her food as she dives back into her research, trying to determine what she can do to keep things from ending differently this time. She wonders if it's even possible to keep the ghost of Bill from looming over her, second only to the unshakeable fog of her supernatural visions, two separate shadows following her every move. 


End file.
